


Love in a Time of War

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU, Future Fic, M/M, Porn, Romance, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-27
Updated: 2009-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a war on, but Luke's not fighting, he's been sent away. Until it's safe again for them, Luke can do nothing but count the days between Sylar's visits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in a Time of War

_Le suprême bonheur de la vie, c’est la conviction qu’on est aimé._   
**The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved. **

\--Victor Hugo, ‘_Les Misérables_’

 

There’s a sudden pop and the rustle of clothes behind him; Luke spins on his heel, pulling his gun from the waistband of his jeans. He fires a full clip in the direction of sound before he’s even identified the target. ‘Shoot first and ask questions later’ isn’t some cop show cliché; it’s the only way to survive.

His right hand is quicker than his left and the two probes of the taser lag behind the bullets.

“Good aim,” Sylar says, grinning as the bullets are ooze out of his chest and his body sucks back in the blood he’s lost. Two inches from his neck, the prongs of the taser are held suspended in the air. “You need to be quicker with that, Luke,” he chides. “The ten second delay is enough to get you killed.”

The taser falls to the ground with a clatter and the spent gun too; Luke barely registers the reprimand as he bounds across the room and slings his arms around Sylar in a tight embrace. The crate that Sylar carries is large, wider than usual and seemingly heavier too. It’s an awkward, sideways hug that Luke holds him in, and Sylar doesn’t have a hand free to hug back, but Luke doesn’t care. He presses his face to Sylar’s shoulder and refuses to release him until Sylar chuckles softly and the box of supplies wafts telekinetically to the table.

“Miss me?” he teases. His breath is warm as it ruffles Luke’s hair, his lips surprisingly soft as he kisses the top of Luke’s head, twisting in Luke’s arms to hold him closer, chest to chest.

“Always,” Luke murmurs. “Everyday,” he says, tilting up his chin, receiving a gentle kiss for his confession. He feels safe, now, with Sylar pressed against him. When Sylar’s here, this godforsaken cabin almost feels like home.

“It’s late,” he whines. “I thought you weren’t… Thought that maybe something happened…”

Sylar quiets him with a finger to his lips. “First Sunday of every month,” he says. “I promised.”

“I know…” Luke fingers the bullet holes in Sylar’s shirt, running the pads of his fingers over the soft, new skin below. “I know, but I heard on the radio--”

Sylar cuts him off, “Don’t believe the radio.” His hand is firm on Luke’s jaw, forcing his head up, dark eyes boring into him. “Don’t listen to what they say,” he growls. “You need to trust me.”

“I do!” Luke’s fingers curl into Sylar’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists as he holds him closer, as if he can hold Sylar tight enough to keep him from leaving. “I do, Sylar. I trust you.”

“Good,” Sylar whispers.

His hand relaxes, thumb stroking softly over Luke’s cheek and he brushes his lips over Luke’s temple, pressing gentle kisses to Luke’s mouth, to the curve of his cheekbone below his eye, to the centre of his forehead and the tip of his nose. It’s tender and it tickles. Luke giggles, sagging against Sylar in relief when Sylar laughs too. But, Sylar’s looking over his shoulder at the calendar pinned to the wall, at each past day meticulously scratched out and the big, red ring around the date. Luke’s scrawled a smiley face in the box for Sunday, “SYLAR!” written in bold, capital letters beneath. Luke blushes a deep, mortified red and ducks his head. In his rush to make things just right, he’d forgotten to take it down.

Luke shifts nervously from foot to foot as Sylar flicks through the pages, each month marked up for Sylar’s visit. Luke’s gut clenches miserably, ashamed, not of his enthusiasm, but of his childish display. Sylar likes restraint and self-control; it’s bad enough he thinks Luke’s just a kid who needs to be tucked away, safe from the battle the whole world bar Luke is fighting. Luke wants to kick himself for not playing it cool, for letting himself get flustered when he’s had a month to prepare to make a good impression. He feels like he’s tripping over his feet and tongue, when all he wants to do is hold Sylar tight and never let go.

But Sylar’s grown quiet, staring at the calendar with his head cocked to the side and instead of yelling at Luke for leaving evidence of his movements lying around, Sylar simply strokes his cheek and kisses the top of Luke’s head. “Do you want to see what I brought?”

Sylar uses telekinesis to lever the lid from the crate. It’s filled with the usual canned food (carrots, peas, beans and peaches, things Luke wouldn’t eat if Sylar didn’t make him promise) and ammunition; another month of Ritalin, comic books and a big box of candy bars. To one side, there’re winter clothes, neatly folded, new, thicker blankets and snow boots in Luke’s size.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, trying to swallow down the bitter disappointment that always comes: another month of supplies means another month alone.

If Sylar notices Luke’s mood darken, he doesn’t mention it. A hundred telekinetic hands place the cans in the pantry and the clothes in the closet. Luke watches as in the midst of all the floating household objects, Sylar quickly cleans and reloads the gun. “Always be prepared…”

“…there’s a war going on,” Luke finishes for him. He rolls his eyes, and shoves the gun back into his waistband. He’s heard it a thousand times before; he hears Sylar saying it in his _dreams_, but the only thing Luke shoots up here are rabbits.

Sylar’s eyes drift to the pot simmering on the wood-burning stove. Luke doesn’t like to cook, but Sylar won’t eat a meal he’s nuked, so once a month, Luke makes an exception. He ladles stew on to two plates, shoving a fork at Sylar and tugging at his arm when he tries to sit at the table. “Outside,” he pleads. “While the weather’s still nice.”

***

In the yard, Sylar kicks at a crumpled, half-melted can.

“What’s this?” he asks around a mouthful of rabbit stew, inclining his head towards the garden fence where a line of similarly battered, rusty cans are scattered.

“Target practice.”

“Target practice?”

Luke grins at his bemused expression. “Wanna see?”

Luke’s guiding him back to lean against the cabin wall before he has a chance to answer. Luke balances his plate on a wide, flat rock at Sylar’s feet and trots off to position the cans: one row at the top of the fence and a second along the crossbar. He jogs back to Sylar and presses at his hip, nudging him nearer to the wall.

“Okay,” Luke babbles. “Okay, just… be careful. Stand back.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Sylar says dryly, glancing down pointedly at his chest where Luke had shot him earlier.

“Oh, oh yeah…” Luke chuckles, leaning up to peck him quickly on the mouth, before darting a good fifteen feet away. When he licks his lips, Luke can taste the grease from the stew.

“Are you watching?” he calls.

There’s no response from Sylar, but Sylar’s staring straight at him. Luke wipes his palm on the seat of his pants and takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. He’s never done this with someone watching, and he wants Sylar to be proud of him and the initiative he’s taken. He whips out the gun and shoots the cans from the top of the fence. He hears the ping of the bullets hitting the cans, and the clatter of the cans as they tumble to the rocky ground below.

“Yes!” Luke pumps his fist in the air. Truth be told, it isn’t often he gets them all on the first round but squinting into the distance, there isn’t a single can left sitting on the fence.

Luke looks at Sylar nervously. For a moment, there’s nothing and then he sees a smile spread across his face. Sylar starts towards him, but Luke yells, “Wait! Not done yet!”

The second part is more difficult, but way more fun. Luke stretches out his arm, palm towards the fence. He concentrates hard, for once glad of the Ritalin he has to take when Sylar’s coming, and directs a narrow beam of microwaves at the row of cans. He has to be careful: too much force and the cans will spark, setting the whole fence alight. A charred patch at the opposite side of the cabin, where Luke used to play this game, is evidence enough of that.

As soon as Luke’s done, he jogs back to Sylar, grabs his food and grabs Sylar’s sleeve to tug him down to see close-up what he’s done. The cans he’s shot have ricocheted and scattered in a wide arc, whereas the melted ones are steaming metal puddles cooling in the grass.

“Awesome,” Luke crows. “What d’ya think?”

He holds his breath as Sylar crouches down and pokes the molten tin with a stick. He runs his fingers along the cross bar of the fence, feeling how the wood is warm but not burned. He hisses and yanks his hand away as a splinter catches on his pinkie. Luke watches the sliver of wood get pushed from Sylar’s skin and the single drop of blood get reabsorbed. Sylar’s staring off in the distance where Luke had stood before.

“About thirty feet.” he muses. “At a target five inches tall…”

He looks at Luke, considering. “Not bad.”

“I know! Pretty cool, right?” Luke dances on the spot while Sylar looks on with one amused eyebrow raised. The butterflies in his stomach from before are gone and he grabs Sylar boldly by the hand to lead him through the nearby woods.

***

The clearing is Luke’s favourite spot, not that there’s much competition in this backwater nowhere. The woods open out onto a placid lake. In the early evening light, the trees are shrouded in shadows, but the moon is clear and the starlight reflects eerily off the water’s surface.

When the weather was warmer, Luke liked paddle in the shallows and now as it turns colder, he simply leans against the trunk of a weeping willow and watches every night as the deer and the rabbits come to drink. It’s peaceful here, even when he hasn’t taken his drugs and his mind is racing; an escape where he can pretend that this is a country vacation Sylar’s sent him on and not an exercise in survival.

They sit cross-legged at the water’s edge, Sylar’s arm hooked loosely around Luke’s waist as they eat with their plates on their laps. It’s a comfortable silence, but still Luke fidgets, playing with his food and his fork until Sylar takes his plate from his hands and puts it out of his reach.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Sylar only shakes his head, leaning back on his hands as he licks his lips, long legs stretched out in front of him until his toes can nearly touch the gently lapping water.

Luke opens his mouth to speak when Sylar suddenly flicks out his arm. To Luke’s surprise, Sylar’s arm keeps on stretching, reaching all the way to the opposite side of the back before snapping back with an elastic twang. Between his fingers, Sylar holds a flower that he’d picked.

“How the--? What?” Luke looks at Sylar and looks at his arm, stroking him from shoulder to wrist to be sure that, yes, Sylar’s arm is no worse the wear for the unexpected display. “Sylar?”

“Do you like it?”

Luke nods, mind still reeling.

“And what about this one?” Sylar concentrates for a moment and the flower in his hand crystallises to ice. He drops it on the ground, chuckling at Luke’s breathy, “Awesome!” as it shatters.

“I’ve missed that one,” Sylar mutters as he stares off into the distance, clenching and relaxing his fist.

“Huh?”

Sylar shakes off Luke’s questioning glance, producing a candy bar from his jacket pocket. They take alternating bites and play with Sylar’s powers: twenty questions to see if Luke can beat the lie detector; Sylar freezing things around them so Luke can nuke them warm again. Eventually, they collapse back spread-eagled on the grass: laughing and full and drunk with their abilities. When Luke leans up on one elbow to hover over Sylar, Sylar smiles up at him and brushes a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Luke’s mouth.

“Messy,” he teases, sucking the pad of his thumb clean as Luke watches, moaning softly.

“Sylar…” he whispers, blushing lightly when his voice seems too loud in the stillness of the night. “Do you… Do you wanna…?”

Sylar snorts. “Do I ‘wanna’?”

“Y’know…” Luke whines. He slings one leg over Sylar’s waist, knees sinking into the grass as he straddles Sylar’s lap and leans down to pepper kisses along his neck. He tugs Sylar’s earlobe between his teeth and slowly rocks their groins together, grinning at Sylar’s huffed moan and the way his hips rise up to meet him. “Do you _wanna_?”

“Yes,” Sylar breathes. “Yes, Luke, I _wanna_.”

He laces his fingers behind Luke’s head and tugs him down for a kiss.

“But not here,” he says, rubbing Luke’s arms as he shivers. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

***

Sylar sits on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes as he watches Luke dump the dishes in the sink. Luke washes his hands and wipes them restlessly on the back of his pants. He’s been fantasising about having Sylar in his bed again since the last time Sylar spent the night, but now that Sylar’s here, Luke’s stomach flips nervously and he drags his feet, stalling for time that they don’t have. The first kiss is just a prelude to the last kiss and everything in between is a freefall that Luke can’t control. It isn’t fair that each day stuck in these godforsaken woods should pass like an eternity, but when Sylar’s here, the seconds, minutes, _hours_ seems to run like sand through Luke’s open fingers.

Softly, Sylar calls, “Come here.”

Luke goes to him, trying to hide the way his hands shake when he places them on Sylar’s shoulders. Sylar holds him steady by the hips and pulls him gently down until Luke’s in his lap with his knees straddling Sylar’s thighs and they can look one another in the eye. Sylar’s mouth brushes his, tongue barely wetting Luke’s lips. Luke nuzzles against him, pressing tiny, ginger kisses to the full curve of Sylar’s bottom lip. When Sylar tilts into him with parted lips, there’s a moment’s hesitation before Luke leans in to meet him.

“Shy tonight?” Sylar hums.

“No,” he mumbles, ignoring the warm flush that spreads across his cheeks whenever he knows that Sylar knows he’s lying. But Sylar doesn’t argue, only strokes Luke’s jaw and cradles his face in two wide palms. He maps the line of Luke’s cheekbones with feather-light kisses, mouthing his way from one earlobe to the other, over the bridge of Luke’s nose, to mark each of Luke’s sun-bright freckles with the touch of his tongue.

Sylar’s nose nestles beside his and their foreheads rest together. Between them, Sylar’s trapped breath smells sweet from the candy bar they’d shared. When Luke kisses him, Sylar lets him set the pace, allows Luke’s tongue to delve between his lips and curl behind his teeth. He folds his arms around Luke’s middle and pulls him more securely into his lap.

“I missed you,” Luke whispers, muffling his words in the crook of Sylar’s neck, idle fingers smoothing through Sylar’s hair.

“I know.” A kiss to Luke’s temple seals Sylar’s words.

Suddenly, Sylar’s half-standing and twisting around, tossing Luke gently to the middle of the bed and crawling after him. The movement catches Luke by surprise and he giggles as he topples backwards, legs and arms akimbo. Sylar laughs too, stretching out over Luke, strong forearms framing Luke’s head, long, lean legs tangled with Luke’s. He kisses Luke on the tip of his nose, chuckling at Luke’s ticklish squeal.

And then, it doesn’t seem to matter how little or how much time they have, as long as they’re spending the time they do have like this. Though Luke knows that every night they spend together is more dangerous for both of them than any hundred nights they spend apart and that at any moment they might be attacked at their most vulnerable, he still feels safer here with Sylar all around him than he ever does alone and off the grid.

Soon, Luke’s lips throb from kissing and his cheeks feel scratched raw from Sylar’s stubble. Against Luke’s hip, he can feel the familiar weight of Sylar’s cock straining within his jeans. Sylar palms the front of Luke’s pants in time to the placid roll of his hips, moulding his fingers to the thick shape of Luke’s erection. Even through the stiff denim, it’s more of a tease than Luke thinks he can take; his thighs quake and snap tight around Sylar’s hips. In his ear, Luke hears a moan rumble deep in Sylar’s throat.

Luke arches his back to grind them together, but it’s not enough, not with so many clothes still between them. So, he surges up off the mattress and flips them over. Sylar settles against the pillows, hands folded comfortably behind his head as he watches Luke with lust-dark eyes and a lazy, indulgent grin. With Sylar spread out beneath him, Luke barely knows where to start; his hands dart tentatively from Sylar’s hips to chest and stroke back down again.

“Go on,” he urges when Luke plays restlessly with the hem of his shirt.

Sylar caresses Luke’s thighs where they bracket his hips, his breathing getting steadily heavier as Luke pushes his t-shirt up. Under his hands, Luke can feel the muscles of Sylar’s flat stomach tensing and relaxing with his touch. He fans out his fingers, stroking up Sylar’s front, marvelling how pale his skin looks against Sylar’s, even with a touch of autumn sunburn.

He drags his fingers through Sylar’s chest hair, ducking his head to press his nose to the centre of Sylar’s chest and rub his cheek against the dark, coarse thatch. Sylar cups the back of his head and gently strokes the nape of Luke’s neck, softly moaning his approval. Luke rests there for as long as he dares, listening to the steady thrum of Sylar’s heartbeat and breathing in the clean scent of his skin, swaddling himself in the warmth of Sylar’s body and the soothing brush of his hands in his hair. If ever Sylar finds the ability to stop time, it’s moments like these that Luke most wants to freeze.

But the eerie hoot of an owl somewhere, far away, outside and Sylar’s firm hand sliding down the back of his jeans, fitting neatly to the curve of his ass, remind Luke that the night is hastening on, not slowing down, and, with a small, reluctant sigh, he stirs himself. Luke nips at each of Sylar’s nipples, smaller and darker than his own, laving the tip of his tongue over the hardened point of each. He makes his way with sucking kisses down the line of Sylar’s sternum and over the flat plane of his belly, relearning what makes Sylar sigh and groan, refreshing his memory of the dips and angles he’s fantasised about so many nights alone.

Luke nibbles at the groove of Sylar’s hip, and then buries his face between Sylar’s thighs to nuzzle against the outline of his cock. With a groan, Sylar sits to shed his t-shirt, tugging Luke back up to strip him of his too. Sylar dips his head, suckling each of Luke’s nipples puffy and pink, and kissing a path back up to Luke’s mouth. Luke’s hands burrow in Sylar’s hair. He leans forward to mirror how Sylar leans back, propping them both against the headboard. They make out breathlessly until Luke thinks he could come from kisses alone, his hips and Sylar’s meeting in a slow, steady grind. Finally, Sylar nudges him gently back so that he can study Luke’s smooth, bare chest.

Luke feels his throat go tight and the uncertain feeling in his gut returns when he sees Sylar start to frown the more he looks. Luke’s mouth is dry and he wonders if the Luke that Sylar’s been jerking off to is a half-remembered fantasy much better than the reality he has before him now. He reaches out for Sylar trying to distract them both with caresses, wanting to deny that he ever caught Sylar’s critical stare, but Sylar’s tightening grip on his waist stops him, fingers pinching at his puppy fat. He kneads Luke’s flesh as he slides his hands up higher and higher until his fingertips tickle the fine hair beneath Luke’s arms and he holds Luke still with a fierce grip. Then, just as quickly as his eyes have narrowed, Sylar grins instead.

“Here,” he says. One finger hooks through Luke’s belt loop, tugging him nearer.

“I wanna,” he teases, parroting back what Luke had said before. But he’s smiling too and tilts his chin up to beg a kiss to follow his words and Luke finds he doesn’t mind being teased.

With deft fingers Sylar opens Luke’s fly, stroking Luke’s dick loosely as he frees him from his jeans; his pants and boxers are left shoved down below the bottom curve of his ass. Sylar leans forward and with a lewd smirk, takes Luke to the back of his throat in one swift movement.

“_Sylar!_” Luke’s hand darts out to steady himself against the headboard and the other goes instinctively to the back of Sylar’s head, fingers twisting in the dark shock of Sylar’s hair.

His head hangs down and Luke knows he’s panting; it’s hard to keep his eyes open, but he wants to watch. His body trembles as hormones flare in his groin, any remaining blood in his brain rushes down to throb hotly through his cock.

Sylar’s breath is warm and damp against Luke’s stomach, and he bobs his head with ease, nose pressed flush to Luke’s pelvic crest, his bottom lip teasing wetly at the delicate skin of Luke’s sac. He pulls back, sucking and swirling his tongue, releasing Luke’s cock with a damp _pop_. Sylar grasps him by the base, jacking his shaft slowly as he rubs the head along his lips, and laps at the pre-come beading at Luke’s slit.

There’s a breathless, desperate sound echoing in the cabin and Luke’s half aware that he’s the one who made it. His hips twitch and he can’t control it, but Sylar doesn’t seem to mind, widening his jaw to let Luke’s cock slide in and out, tight, taut flesh over soft, plump lips. Luke watches the shape of the head of his dick as it rubs against the inside of Sylar’s cheek until his balls feel heavy and his cock is slick to dripping with spit and pre-come. He has to close his eyes before the sight of Sylar’s sex-flushed cheeks and swollen mouth wrings an orgasm from him too soon.

Sylar pulls off, groaning. He presses breathless kisses to Luke’s soft belly while his hand curls around Luke’s length, stroking lazily to ease the loss. Sylar’s hands are big and broad, with long, thick fingers, and Luke’s forgotten how perfectly they fit together with Sylar’s fist around his dick. Luke holds Sylar close and fucks his hand until the sound of Sylar calling his name registers through the haze of his arousal.

“Luke,” Sylar says again, equal parts amused and exasperated. Luke thinks it must be the latest “Luke” of many that he hasn’t heard.

He tries to say, “Yes,” or, “Sylar” or even, “What?” but his mouth is slack and his throat is dry and all his consonants come out as a muddled mash that merely sounds confused.

“I said don’t pull my hair, sweetheart.”

Sylar moves his head slightly to the right and Luke can feel the tension in his forearm as he unconsciously grips Sylar closer, tugging him back by the fistful of hair he holds. Luke blushes, both at the pet name that Sylar uses so rarely and always when Luke least expects it, and at being caught acting so selfishly. He drops his hold and wipes his sweaty palm on the crumpled jeans around his thighs.

“Oh shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“S’okay,” Sylar murmurs, tugging him down to kiss Luke’s apologies away. His hand moves in time to the lap of his tongue inside Luke’s mouth, and before long, Luke’s pulling away with a frustrated grunt.

“Okay,” he pants. “Okay… gimme a second.”

Luke sprawls spread-eagled on the bed, cock bouncing and slapping against his belly as he wildly kicks off his jeans and underwear, squirming on the comforter as they twist and tangle around his ankles before he can finally wriggle free. Sylar laughs as he watches Luke struggle, sliding off the bed with an easy grace and shucking his own clothes with quick, precise movements that go straight to Luke’s cock. Sylar’s barely toed off his socks before Luke’s grabbing by him the wrists and yanking him down on top of him, letting Sylar pin his wrists above his head and settle between his legs.

Sylar fingers lace through Luke’s. Sylar’s mouth is over his, but barely kissing. Luke lets his eyes fall shut and concentrates on the warmth of Sylar’s breath on his lips, and the solid weight of his body above him, revelling in their closeness when they’re usually so desperately far apart.

“I love you,” Luke says, half his words swallowed by Sylar’s kiss.

Sylar’s hands drag down his arms, feeling their way over forearms and elbows and biceps. They rest at his shoulders before caressing Luke’s chest in broad, soothing arcs.

“Mmm,” Luke moans. “S’nice,” he whispers, but when he blinks up at Sylar, seeking confirmation that Sylar feels the same way too, the worry line between Sylar’s thick brows is back.

Instinctively, Luke tenses and Sylar can feel it in the muscles of his chest. He looks up quickly and catches Luke’s eye. “You’re getting too skinny,” he says gruffly.

“What? No.” Luke shakes his head. He hitches himself up on his elbows, looking down at his own body and at Sylar’s wide hands splayed out over his chest. With the span of both his hands, Sylar encompasses the whole of Luke’s narrow chest, and when he slides them down and cinches in Luke’s waist, his thumbs nearly meet at Luke’s navel, ribs and hipbones jutting out.

“Okay,” Luke concedes. “Maybe a little.”

“You need to take better care of yourself, Luke.” Sylar sounds angry and Luke _ums_ and _ahs_, stammering nervously as he is overcome with the sudden urge to roll away. He doesn’t want the memory of being trouble to be what stays with him in the long, empty month to come.

It’s not Luke’s fault that his choices are chasing rabbits or beans from a tin can; it’s not Luke’s fault that sometimes it doesn’t seem like either is worth the effort. He’d rather his days blur together in a haze of not enough food and not enough Ritalin, mind too jumpy to focus on the overwhelming loneliness and quiet of the woods. Luke turns his face away from Sylar’s scowl, a frown of his own forming on his features. It’s not fair that Sylar should tell him what to do when he’s not here to know what it’s really like. Before he can spit that until Sylar takes him back to DC to join the fight, he’ll do whatever the fuck he likes, Sylar shakes him by the shoulders.

“Hey!” Luke snaps. “Quit it!”

“No,” Sylar grits. “Luke, you need to be ready, always. Not just when you know I’m coming, but when you don’t. When I need you, there won’t be any warning and I have to know that you’re taking care of yourself when I’m not here to do it for you.”

“Fine,” Luke whines.

“Luke, I mean it.”

“Okay! I said fine, all right?” Luke nips at Sylar’s mouth, tugging at his bottom lip until he’s kissed. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“I know,” Sylar says, kissing him deep, and hard and fierce. “I know. But it’ll be time soon enough, Luke. You need to be prepared.”

“I will be. I will, I swear.”

“Good boy.”

Luke groans, content when Sylar’s hand wraps around his flagging cock and Sylar mouths his way over every rib that’s sticking out in too-high relief for his liking. Luke clutches at the sheets above his head, knees bending slightly as Sylar’s mouth envelops his cock once more. His moans are matched by Sylar’s, low and deep, rumbling through Luke’s dick to make his balls feel tight and his toes curl. He whimpers in desperation, trying to thrust into Sylar’s mouth again but he’s held in place by Sylar’s grip on his hip. Sylar’s tongue slides playfully over the head of his cock, seeking out that spot below the head that makes Luke’s thighs tremble, and Luke has to scrabble at Sylar’s shoulders and pull him up again, before the crashing waves of pleasure low in his gut break too soon.

“Your turn,” Luke pants, rolling them over and working his way dawn between Sylar’s spread legs.

Sylar holds himself up on one forearm to watch as Luke rests with his elbows framing Sylar’s hips, hands meeting as they circle Sylar’s erection. Luke tries to do what Sylar did to him, to swallow him down in one dip of his head, but Sylar’s too thick and too long, and Luke’s a month out of practice. He gags; Sylar’s pre-come tastes more bitter and salty than Luke remembers, sticking to his palate no matter how much he swallows to clear his throat.

“Easy, easy,” Sylar whispers.

Luke licks his tip quickly, holding Sylar’s taste in his mouth until he’s used to it and then he tries again with more success. His lips meet his hand and this time, Luke remembers to breathe while he sucks, bobbing his head and pumping his hand in tandem. He listens to Sylar moaning and watches his face, not satisfied until Sylar collapses back against the bed and his hips begin to rock. Then, Luke pulls off, face flushed with pride at the pretty, pleading noises Sylar’s making, and allows himself a break, rubbing sheepishly at the aching hinge of his jaw.

He shifts down, lapping at Sylar’s balls and tugging at the sensitive skin between them with his lips. Luke moans at the way Sylar’s cock jerks up at the sensation and he takes Sylar’s dick in one hand and his own in the other, jacking them both lazily as he sucks at Sylar’s sac. Sylar spreads his legs wider and draws his knees up to his chest. Luke drops his cock to press one hand to the back of Sylar’s thigh and hold his leg in place as he mouths down lower to lick a warm, slick stripe up the crack of Sylar’s ass. He spits on Sylar’s asshole, spreading the wetness with the tip of his tongue and fingers already greased with pre-come. He traces over the undulations of Sylar’s puckered flesh, lapping eagerly at his opening until the ring of muscle starts to relax and Luke can ease two saliva-damp fingers inside.

Luke’s fingers are long and slim, and he curls them exactly how he knows Sylar likes, dragging his fingertips over his prostate until he feels Sylar’s ass clamp down around him. He twists and separates his fingers, opening Sylar slowly, watching his pinkening hole as it stretches every time Luke delves inside. Luke rests his cheek against Sylar’s inner thigh and watches Sylar’s face, eyes flickering behind closed lids, perfect white teeth latching to his bottom lip as he loses himself to the feel of Luke’s fingers working inside him.

“Gorgeous,” Luke mutters, half under his breath.

Sylar hears, opening his eyes with a goofy, sex-drunk grin and Luke has to bite his tongue to stop himself from pleading that if only Sylar wouldn’t leave him, Luke would make him feel like this every minute of every hour of every day. Instead, Luke has to be content with now, with Sylar pulling him up and kissing him breathless, with Sylar flipping them over to straddle his hips, with Sylar moaning his name in his ear while Luke fumbles for the lube and condoms.

When Luke passes him the near-empty bottle of lube, Sylar grins and teases, “You _have_ missed me”, pressing the back of his fingers lightly to Luke’s cheek to feel the heat of his blush. He drizzles what’s left on Luke’s fingers and guides them down between his legs.

Luke’s cock _throbs_ when Sylar telekinetically pulls a fresh tube from his rucksack. He doesn’t stop to ask how that display helped Sylar “achieve his objective” because, maybe, Luke thinks, _he_ is Sylar’s objective. Luke doesn’t think that he could possibly get any harder, but at that thought, his cock twitches wildly, jerking up against Sylar’s thigh. Sylar chuckles down at him, soothing his cock with loose tugs of his fist, rolling a condom on him and slicking his length.

He holds Luke’s cock in place with one hand and with other, he presses lightly on Luke’s stomach to hold him still. Luke concentrates on jerking Sylar’s cock to stop himself from bucking his hips as Sylar slowly sits. When the back of Sylar’s thighs are resting on the tops of Luke’s, they both let out a breathless groan and Sylar curls down over him, both arms framing Luke’s head as they kiss.

“I missed this,” Sylar breathes. Luke knows he means, “I missed you”.

Then, Sylar’s rising up and falling back down, ass tight around Luke’s cock. The bed bounces up and down in time to their movements and Luke’s mouth falls open, lips pliant as he lets himself be kissed, unable to concentrate on anything but the heat and press of Sylar around him. Sylar’s whispering in his ear and into his mouth, nonsense noises and groans, sweet endearments that he’ll deny at any other moment. Luke tries to catch them all and cling to them, to remember them well enough to play them back when his own hand is the only company he has.

Luke starts to match Sylar’s movements, the clap of skin to skin echoing with their moans and the squeak of the ancient bedsprings. He strokes his hands down Sylar’s sides, leaving glistening finger trails of lube in his wake, and settles at Sylar’s hips, notching his thumbs to Sylar’s iliac crests. Sylar works his own cock, hand moving quickly between them, twisting, stroking and squeezing. Luke gaze follows the path of Sylar’s thumb as it rubs swift circles around the ridge of the head of his cock and slides along his slit. He thrusts up as best he can, feeling his balls slap up against Sylar’s ass, twisting his hips a little to grind them together and he’s rewarded by Sylar swearing softly in his ear and bearing down harder.

“Sylar,” Luke pleads, arching his back. “Please, I gotta… I wanna…”

“Yeah,” Sylar moans. “Yeah, me too.”

He rolls them over and wraps his legs around Luke’s waist, one hand clutching at the back of Luke’s thigh, pulling him closer and urging him to thrust. Luke sits up on his knees, pounding into Sylar at the same quick rhythm Sylar’s using on his cock. He runs his hands over Sylar’s sweat-damp sides, feeling Sylar’s muscles as they tense, watching, open-mouthed, as Sylar’s body curls and he comes in thick, hot pulses. Sylar shouts out his orgasm, nails digging into Luke’s skin to keep him thrusting, and he comes for so long and so hard, that Luke thinks Sylar’s been saving himself all month for this night.

While Sylar’s ass still spasms around him, Sylar gives his cock one last tug and lets it drop with a breathless chuckle. Luke braces himself on his hands on either side of Sylar’s shoulders, craning forward to kiss him as Sylar strains up to meet him, lips moving in lazy time to the roll of Sylar’s hips.

“Go on,” he urges. “Come for me, Luke,” he says, like he knows that’s what Luke imagines every night without him. Luke drives in deep and comes, arms giving out as he peaks.

Luke sprawls over Sylar’s chest, panting and sweaty and delirious with his afterglow, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut that now they’ve come, they’re on a borrowed time. He presses his nose below Sylar’s ear, licking the salt from his skin as Sylar brushes his damp hair back from his forehead and strokes his shaking body. Luke spreads his legs enough for Sylar to slide the condom from him and wipe him clean with a handful of tissue from the bedside table.

“S’good,” he mumbles, stifling a yawn.

Humming in agreement, Sylar drags the sheets around them, cradling Luke in the crook of his arm as he shifts enough that Luke’s pressed against his side instead of crushing him. Luke plays with his chest hair, winding it round his fingers and tugging gently, listening to Sylar breathe until Sylar covers his hand with his own and holds it still.

“Sylar…?”

“Mm?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Sylar chuckles softly, brushing his thumb over the back of Luke’s knuckles. “It’s the first Sunday of the month, Luke. Where else would I be?”

“I know,” Luke whispers fitfully. “I know, I just…”

“Hush,” Sylar murmurs, kissing Luke on the top of his head. “Sleep, now.”

***

Luke wakes to Sylar’s voice and his shoulder being gently shaken.

“Sylar? What…?”

He opens his eyes, rubbing them lazily. The alarm clock is flashing 4.17 am.

“No,” he whines, at the sight of Sylar, fully dressed, sitting by his side. “Not yet.”

Sylar’s firm, “Yes,” is his only reply.

Luke clings to Sylar’s neck, kissing him for all he’s worth, moaning miserably when Sylar inevitably pulls away.

“Always be ready for me, Luke.”

“I promise,” he says as Sylar kisses him on the forehead.

“Good boy. Now close your eyes.”

Luke scrunches his eyes shut and draws his knees to his chest, hugging his arms around himself as he hears the sickening creak of Sylar’s bones changing state and Sylar’s bitten back groan of pain as he shifts into someone else.

It’s Sylar’s voice that says, “Goodbye” and Sylar’s voice that promises, “I’ll see you next month,” but it won’t be Sylar’s lips the words are coming from and for Luke, Sylar’s already gone. He silently counts back from a hundred, holding himself tight and biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. When he reaches ‘one’, Luke carefully opens his eyes. Sylar or whoever he is these days has left.

In the corner of the one-room cabin, Sylar’s left a stack of firewood. On the kitchen counter, the bloody hunting knife tells Luke there’ll be fresh rabbit waiting in the icebox. The extra thick down comforter has been tucked around him. From his bedside drawer, Luke pulls out the drawing he keeps hidden between the pages of a comic: Luke dead in Sylar’s arms, a sniper’s bullet taking Sylar down, too. In the background, the White House looms large, and there’s snow dusting the ground they fall to.

With winter on its way, it won’t be long until they know if Sylar’s precautions have prevented the future he sketched from coming true.


End file.
